It was probably 2 AM and we were still on the couch when I looked over at him and said: “I do like you, you know.” I told him that I didn’t want us to call this anything because I didn’t want to ruin it and he said that he wasn’t going to call it anything because I seemed like the type that didn’t want to be claimed. He was right in a way and wrong in another.
I listened to other writers talk about students, Italy, tomatoes, politics. Everyone there was definitely out of my league so I tried to lean back some more, listening and watching as orange went purple then blue then black and then I mentioned, a bit tipsy now, that I liked rocks.
He led me down to the water and I drank from it. Soon, I was vomiting. “Now, when you drink from it again, you won’t throw up,” he said.
Why am I not interesting or pretty or cool enough for you? What am I fundamentally MISSING that makes me so “other” from everyone else… so bleh and ehhhhhh and take-it-or-leave-it-but-better-just-leave-it?
I love him, and he doesn’t speak to me. I love him, and he doesn’t hold my hand. I love him, and he doesn’t dance with me. And I love him.
There’s no sense in asking it to leave, because it’s a one-way conversation, where I can hear everything it says but it registers nothing I say. Some days, we carry on together for miles… at other times, for mere minutes.